


Surrender

by RainySpringMorning



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Ending, Assassin's Creed III Spoilers, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringMorning/pseuds/RainySpringMorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a surrender is made, but trouble is quick to follow.</p><p>Does contain SPOILERS for anyone who has not completed Assassin's Creed III. Non-Canon.</p><p>Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed and all characters/settings/events belongs to Ubisoft!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, another warning: This contains spoilers for anyone who may have not completed Assassin's Creed III. I'm very new to the series and I'm aware that others will be new to it as well (we're all introduced to new things everyday as it is!) so I thought I'd be kind enough to warn you. Also, this fanfic is rated for canon-typical violence which, in Assassin's Creed, can become pretty violent. I am currently uncertain whether or not this will be continued, but I am certain minor changes and edits will be made, though the majority of the final work posted here should stay the same overall. As always, enjoy!

“And why would I surrender to you?” Haytham challenged, pressing down harder upon Connor’s windpipe. The Assassin strained for air, his legs kicking as he tried to wriggle free from the unrelenting grip of his father’s strong hands. Baring his teeth, he snarled in response; it was a truly ghastly sight with the dried blood surrounding his lips like a drooping mustache. The rest of him, as well as Haytham, were covered all over in splotches of blood where their weapons or fists had found a spot to leave a wound in their deadly skirmish.

One hand was grasping off to the side to where his tomahawk had clattered away and out of his grip. Haytham glimpsed this from the corner of his eye and, risking his hold on Connor, lunged in a fervent attempt to snatch the weapon and keep his son pinned in place.

Connor, gasping in the deep breath he was unintentionally offered, swung his arm around quickly and walloped his father in the side of the head with a clenched fist, surprising him. He sat up and shoved Haytham off his lap, grasping his tomahawk and shoving his father down onto the ground. He held the sharp edge of the tomahawk to Haytham’s throat; Haytham glared up at him with the same stubborn determination he’d passed on to his kin, looming over him with a half-angered gleam in his eye.

“You _will_ surrender,” Connor said brusquely, letting the polished steel touch the maple-coloured skin, just enough to leave the finest of scratches. Haytham seemed to register the fact that Connor would indeed slice his throat if he so much as moved wrong, though moving was the last thing he wanted to do in this position, and he released his breath and rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Very well, I surrender.” He was amused to find surprise in Connor’s gaze, but it didn’t last long; the Assassin got to his feet and, after a brief hesitation, offered a hand to help his father stand. Haytham stared at the hand, large and thick-fingered like his own, scarred on both palm and back. He took it, feeling strength and warmth in his son’s touch as he climbed back onto his feet.

“Why did you accept?” Connor asked after giving his father a moment to retrieve his dusty hat. He looked somewhat pleased with himself for having won, but there was contentment and relief shining in the depths of his dark eyes, if not confusion. Haytham knew Connor was happy with not having to kill his own father; Haytham was admittedly glad as well, though it undoubtedly complicated things. Haytham had betrayed the Templar Order time and time again, most memorably on the day he cut the rope noose intended to hang his son.

Templars were raised to feel no love for their closets friends or their kin; it was a weakness, and yet Haytham let his growing bond with Connor interfere with who he had become. It endangered him, no doubt, but at that moment Haytham feared nothing. He turned to Connor to answer the half-Mohawk's question but paused, noticing movement not thirty paces away, behind the Assassin, wearing a dark cloak to conceal his uniform. “Connor-” was all Haytham had time to say before the forty-man party of British soldiers were upon them, ringing them in a circle.

“We’ve got you now!” one of the soldiers called out and Haytham passed his son a dark look. “What on earth have you gotten yourself into, boy?” Connor didn’t answer; instead, he twirled his tomahawk in one hand, extended a sleeve blade in the other, and moved so he stood back-to-back with the Templar.

“The usual,” Connor answered, rather cheekily, as the order rang out and the British surged in with bayonets raised.

Haytham immediately caught one bayonet and used the soldier’s momentum to propel it into a fellow Brit; moving away fluidly, he sliced his sword through a trinity of soldiers trying to press him into a stack of crates and kicked back a fourth, turning in time to stop a sword from cutting into his shoulder. He glimpsed the bloodied white and blue uniform moving like a tornado of death not far off, surrounded by at least half a dozen men, then there were none and Connor was vaulting into another group.

The fight extended to several minutes, more soldiers running to aid their rapidly dropping mates and falling by either Assassin or Templar’s hand. At some point, Haytham backed right into Connor and was surprised to hear ragged breathing, He risked a glance and saw the dark crimson patch staining a large section of Connor’s side, the source of his son’s pains.

The distraction nearly cost Haytham his life; Connor, still faster and lither than him, spotted movement beyond himself and Haytham and fluidly moved, putting himself between his father and the oncoming dual-sword-wielding soldier. Connor caught the blades in the air with the handle of his tomahawk and shoved him back, fending him off. “Do not worry about me,” Connor snapped and went after a fleeing young soldier, knocking him down and finishing him off fiercely.

Taking the opportunity to grab a breath of air, Haytham started after a couple of soldiers preparing their guns. He struck down the first, driving his blade through the soldier’s heart, but raised his hand too late to the other soldier; the bayonet skimmed along his forearm and jabbed into his breast, hard enough to not endanger him but just so for him to let loose a startled cry of pain. If the bayonet went any further, or the soldier decided to fire the gun, he would certainly be dead.

Haytham was in the process of considering whether or not he should chance his life and drive the bayonet in further before the soldier subtracted all opportunities when the tomahawk came around the soldier from behind and tore his throat wide open, spraying a ribbon of red; Haytham ducked, shielding his face as the blood splattered his cape and jacket. The Templar peered up and saw Connor having replaced where the Brit had stood but a second prior, bloody tomahawk in hand.

“I should thank you for that,” Haytham said with no small amount of cheeriness, getting to his feet. Connor simply nodded; he had been struck in the nose and a waterfall of blood had doused over his lips in a smudged pyramid, having gushed down to add more red to his uniform.

“I suppose that is all who are coming,” Connor said, looking around; Haytham noticed him wince and saw the ragged holes in the fabric of his clothes where he had been stabbed. The Templar was in the middle of searching for a humourful remark when at least two dozen Regulars came charging around the corner. Haytham and Connor sighed and readied their weapons, falling into fighting stances side by side.

These soldiers were obviously fresher and, though panting with exertion from running down the streets, they were truly furious opponents behind their flashing weaponry. Haytham had cut down three when he noticed almost a full dozen had backed Connor up against the wall of a brick manor; the Assassin didn’t look too troubled – in fact, Haytham could read the expression of calculation on his son’s face just before the tomahawk and sleeve blade began swinging. Certain his son could manage himself, Haytham returned to fighting off the soldiers coming up from behind.

A piercing cry rang out and Haytham spared a brief glance; a Brit was staggering away from the fight with Connor’s tomahawk protruding from his chest, and only went a few steps before falling facedown and driving the blade in deeper. Connor was left with his two sleeve blades, which brought his targets in at a much closer range and wouldn’t catch their bayonets and swords as easily.

Haytham ducked as an axe swung at his head; he felt the air whoosh just an inch above the back of his skull. He propelled himself forward and into the axe-wielding soldier, knocking him down to the ground and sending the axe clattering away. The soldier took the bite of the sleeve blade in his shielding arm but the second buried deeply into his chest. Leaving him to bleed out, Haytham closed the distance to assist Connor, whose attackers seemed to have slowed in their perishing.

He neared just in time to see Connor miss and receive a particularly nasty strike to the face, one that left his cheek oozing a red line that smeared with his movements. Haytham grasped one of remaining half dozen and threw him aside, grabbing another and jabbing him sharply in the back as he fell away. Connor slipped out of the fray and murmured what Haytham could only guess were words of gratitude, though not spoken in English, before they were back at it.

It became a process of fending the soldiers, who had once again regrouped and doubled their ranks, and both father and son were beginning to feel it more than they would have liked to admit to. Locking back-to-back once again, Haytham kicked and shoved Brits aside, stabbing only when he was certain it would be a clean kill; Connor did the same, if not with more noise.

Haytham suddenly staggered as Connor slammed backwards into him, the result of taking the butt of a gun to the stomach, where he was already bleeding from a cut; the Templar was thrust forward into a bayonet jabbing forward at the same moment, and he felt the blade bounce off a rib. The agony that followed was startling and he froze up, willing the blistering ache to stop. Connor yelled out and spun around in front, firing off his pistol with the single shot he could spare. The bullet struck the soldier in the collarbone and the Assassin flew at him, leaping onto his chest and dropping him to the ground, driving his sleeve blades into a part of his body concealed from Haytham’s view.

That British soldier was the last that the Templar could see and he let his shoulders sag in relief; he could feel every single one of his wounds and he could only imagine the amount of alcohol and bandages it would take to soften tomorrow’s ill-feeling. Connor would undoubtedly feel the same, if not worse, as the Assassin had appeared to have taken twice, if not three times more blows than that of Haytham. “What a delight that that’s finally over,” Haytham said without restraint, glancing around just to make sure that his words were not too soon.

With the coast being clear, Haytham seated himself on a crate, looking over to where Connor was kneeling over a body, patting the pockets in search of loot, when Haytham heard a light scuffle behind him. Looking round, he tried to puzzle out what lurked nearby and as he did so, five British soldiers rose above a row of crates and lifted their loaded guns, aiming directly for Connor. Haytham’s heart jumped into his mouth and he leaped to his feet, shouting in warning, “Connor!”

Too late, his injuries slowing him, the Assassin turned and his eyes locked onto the line of soldiers. Haytham ran, trying to close the distance between himself and his son so that he might grab him or shield him, but a crack of explosions filled the air, too close…

Shaking his head and squinting through the smoke, Haytham glimpsed Connor failing to clamber to his feet; his back was spotted with marks already beginning to blossom red, and he wavered as he rose. Haytham, brimming with terrified infuriation, launched himself at the group and sliced through them, tearing them open and not slowing until they were lying still at his feet. His ears still echoed with the noise of the gunshots.

Haytham surveyed the bloody mess at the edge of the pier, searching quickly among them for any survivors. He found one, half his age and tanned from the sun, sporting a well-groomed beard. Haytham knelt and plunged his sleeve blade into the soldier’s stomach, overcome with anger, and he raised his hand and stabbed down again, and again, and again…

“ _Father!_ ” Connor’s ragged cry reached his ears and the Templar stopped, soaked to the elbow in British blood, and looked over to where Connor was struggling to drag himself towards him. Haytham abandoned the corpse and rushed to him, crouching to loop Connor’s arm around his shoulders. He involuntarily flinched when Connor cried out in pain.

“Easy, son,” Haytham heard himself murmuring gently as he guided his son along a few steps at a time, painstakingly maneuvering around each dead soldier, slowing when Connor’s ragged breaths became heaving gasps.

A trail of blood followed them in a weaving line.


End file.
